


Toll

by athena_crikey



Category: Gintama
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Yorozuya get sent on an exorcism. Unsurprisingly, things do not go smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Always a Mistake to Turn Around

**Author's Note:**

> As I started writing this before seeing the ghost arc, it's AU from the show's depiction of the supernatural.

“My building,” says their client, a withered old man with a bent back and a voice that’s so soporific even Shinpachi’s fighting to stay awake, “is haunted.”

He tells them he’s the ancient retainer of a mansion whose actual owners passed away in the _Jyoui_ war, digressing for several minutes to lament that tragedy before moving on. With no next of kin to inherit and most of the government’s documents destroyed in the conflict, the house has been left empty and forgotten as the years passed. Except, that is, for the single elderly servant pottering through its halls, cleaning rooms no one uses and tending to a garden no one sees. Shinpachi thinks drowsily that that must be some kind of haunting all on its own, the resident ghost sitting in front of them staring down at the table with threadbare clothes and milky eyes.

“And?” asks Gintoki, cleaning his ear with his pinky. Shinpachi is too busy trying to stay awake to rebuke him. Kagura, whose sense of social conscience is entirely dependent on her mood and how many people she’ll get to beat up exercising it, is stretched out asleep on the couch next to their client like some giant red sausage with her mouth wide open.

“My family is insisting I move in with them; they say I’m too weak to live alone. There will be no one left to care for the estate once I am gone. But as long as it is haunted, no one will purchase it,” explains the man in a faltering tone. “I couldn’t stand to see it fall into ruin, with no one there to care for it.”

“You want us to chase away the ghosts?” asks Shinpachi, and kicks Kagura as she rolls over to scratch at her stomach. He nearly loses his leg when she launches a return blow in her sleep; it misses him and lands against the table, adding another hairline crack to the already abused piece of furniture. She sits up, blinking at her reddening hand in puzzlement.

The old man nods, apparently not having noticed the random spat of violence beside him, and leans forward on his walking stick. “That’s right.”

“Why us?” asks Gintoki, staring in a kind of fascinated horror as their client yawns, exposing two full lines of toothless pink gums. “Y-you should use a priest for exorcisms.” His eyes are wide as saucers, staring into the depths of the old man’s wrinkled mouth.

“Don’t argue with clients,” hisses Shinpachi.

“What’s going on?” asks Kagura, turning to look at the man she’s sharing the couch with as if he hadn’t been there for the past fifteen minutes. “Who’s this old geezer?”

“ _He’s our client,_ ” says Shinpachi, beginning to work up momentum again now that it looks like the long answers are out of the way.

“I tried that,” explains the old man, apparently several comments behind, “but they said they couldn’t do anything about it. Priests these days… when I was young, we had _real_ priests full of vim and vigour; they could throw out twenty ghosts before breakfast!” He shakes his fist in some kind of gesture possibly meant to embody vim and vigour, voice wavering with the motion.

“Look Gin-chan, he doesn’t have any teeth! Is he growing in more? Will they be big and sharp, like a shark’s?”

Shinpachi regrets suggesting Kagura try to educate herself about Earth’s ecosystem. Especially since she set about it, like she sets about all her educational endeavours, by finding a likely-looking channel on TV.

“Maa, Kagura-chan, it’s just another reflection of the inequalities of society. As men grow old and lose their teeth, the rich ones replace them with diamonds, and the poor ones have to eat their wives’ horrible soup for the rest of their lives.”

“When I get old, I’m going to replace my teeth with a shark’s,” declares Kagura.

“That is _not how it works_ ,” cuts in Shinpachi, before any more idiocy can take place. “You can get perfectly acceptable dentures from the dentist. _And anyway_ , you should be listening to our client.”

“Oh, right,” says Gintoki, as if he’s somehow forgotten about the stranger sitting three feet across from him. “Well, what do you want us to do about it?”

“You already asked, Gin-san. He wants us to exorcise his house.”

“I don’t think Sadaharu would let us use his leash.” Kagura frowns, contemplating. Behind Gintoki’s unused desk, the giant dog barks at his name.

“Not exercise, _exorcise_. Get rid of evil spirits, ghosts. His house is haunted,” adds Shinpachi, recalling who he’s speaking to, and wondering whether it will be his fate to spend his life acting as a tape player.

“Wow! A haunted house! We get to beat up ghosts!” Kagura shoots up like a bright red rocket, startling the old man.

“Just ignore her,” advises Gintoki. And then, “So do you know whose ghosts these are, anyway?”

“No. No one ever sees them. They leave me alone, but they don’t like strangers.”

“You said everyone in the family was dead,” says Shinpachi. “Could it be them?”

“No, no, the masters would never do that!”

“I don’t think it works that way…”

“The masters would never do that!” repeats their client. Shinpachi sighs. It’s going to be one of those cases. The ones that are like… all the rest of their cases, really.

***

Gintoki can tell before they’ve even arrived at the gate that the estate is going to be the typical walled high-class mansion, complete with manicured grounds including zen garden and koi pond. The old man has given them the key and they enter without any difficulty, although really, hopping the fence and breaking open the front door wouldn’t have been very hard at all either. In today’s world of advanced laser anti-burglar systems and butterfly-sensitive landmines, the mansion’s rusty lock is a startling anachronism.

“This place is amazing!” says Kagura, staring around the wide gardens – greenery is scarce on a world with no sunlight, and she still hasn’t quite come to view expensively-landscaped gardens with the desiccated cynicism she’s capable of applying to most everything else.

“Aa,” agrees Gintoki glumly. “You can learn all about the evils of our discriminatory class system here, Kagura-chan. Pay attention, and learn how the wealthy have always unfairly beaten down those cursed by fate with natural perms.”

“That is completely untrue,” says Shinpachi, grabbing Kagura by the back of her dress before she can disappear into the grounds.

“Let go, Shinpachi! I’m going to look for ghosts!”

“The ghosts are _inside._ ”

“You don’t know that. Maybe they’re in the garden. Maybe they’re having a picnic. Just because you don’t know how to have fun doesn’t mean ghosts don’t, Shinpachi. Gin-san, Shinpachi is discriminating against dead people!”

“Maa, Shinpachi, I would have thought you knew better. And after all the time I’ve spent trying to instil the ideals of the samurai into you.” Gintoki shakes his head in disappointment.

“What time? You haven’t spent any time, you just make me cook your meals and clean your apartment!” Shinpachi momentarily stops towing Kagura, the three of them now standing in the mansion’s doorway. They’ve long since mastered the ability to bicker and work at the same time; otherwise, they would have starved ages ago.

“Well, it seems I was right after all not to advance you to the more complex lessons. We may have to start again from the beginning.”

“Don’t say such ridiculous things!” Shinpachi opens his mouth, no doubt ready to start more admonishing. Before he can a long, low moan drifts out from within the house. All three of them freeze, Kagura in the process of poking at the _furin_ , Gintoki picking his nose, Shinpachi pinwheeling as usual. They turn to each other and break out in low whispers, faces stuck in masks of confidence.

“W-w-what was that?”

“Was it the ghost? The ghost? But what about the picnic?”

“Should we still go inside? What do we do? Ah, Gin-san, come back!” Shinpachi grabs the retreating Gintoki’s shirt and swings him around, using the momentum to toss him at the front doors. His weight, combined with the momentum, causes him to knock the doors right out of their thin grooves and he tumbles into the dark corridor beyond with an echoing crash. Scrambling hurriedly to his feet, the samurai draws his bokutou.

“Ah, ah, pardon the intrusion,” he stutters, glancing frantically around. “Is anyone home? Even as I say it, I really hope you aren’t. I mean – hello?” Behind him, Shinpachi and Kagura creep up, holding shinai and umbrella in white-knuckled grips.

The poor light slanting in from the doorway isn’t strong enough to light the long corridor stretching the length of the house. From within the thick darkness there comes a slow, heavy shuffling. The sound of something moving down the hallway with uneven movements, encumbered by heavy layers of fabric. Gintoki laughs nervously, eye twitching.

“Ahaha, maybe we’ll just come back later. It really isn’t anything important at all. Sorry to disturb you!” He tries to back out, and finds himself shoved forward by Shinpachi and Kagura.

“You can’t, Gin-chan! We have to fight the ghost!” Kagura shoves him in the small of the back, causing him to bend in an awkward U curve as he struggles to keep from advancing.

“That’s right, Gin-san! Our job is to get rid of it!” Shinpachi lends a hand, causing the silver-haired man to flail.

“If you two are so eager, why don’t you take the lead?!”

Ahead of them in the musty corridor, a form begins to solidify out of the darkness. Long dark hair, pale skin, a plain kimono. It advances with unsteady, slightly staggering movements, pale hands stretched out as if searching for something.

They all three of them stare, caught in a single instant of immobilizing fear. And then Gintoki turns to run. And Kagura and Shinpachi, acting in whiplash unison, shove him forward together.

“Go deal with the ghost, Gin-chan!”

“Good luck, Gin-san!”

“You bastards, you just want to sacrifice me to save yourselves!” He nearly has the upper hand of them, but Kagura – who has no scruples about fighting dirty – kicks his leg out from under him at the same time as Shinpachi slams forward into his shoulders.

Gintoki goes flying down the corridor, hitting the ground hard and rolling.

Right into the ghost. Which feels suspiciously tangible when he slams into its legs.

They end up on the floor together, Gintoki uppermost and scrambling to pull away from the dark kimono and yellow obi before the thing, whatever it is, recovers and –

Wait. Dark kimono. Yellow obi. Long black hair. Gintoki’s brain operates at break-neck speed.

“Zura?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

On the floor in front of him Zura sits up, rubbing his head. “What are you doing here, Gintoki? And it’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.”

“I should be the one asking that.” Leg muscles wobbling like jelly due to being marinated in adrenaline, Gintoki drops to his haunches and rests some of his weight against his bokutou. “The hell are you doing, wandering around this mansion like goddamn Okiku?”

Zura brushes his hair out of his face, expression flat as always. “As it happens, I was having a nap. My apartment was recently discovered by the Shinsengumi, and I haven’t been able to secure a new one yet. It’s too dangerous to sleep on the streets, and the Jyoui facilities are currently under renovation; we had an incident last week with a time bomb.”

“So you’re just squatting in random peoples’ houses like some kind of bum now? That’s pretty lame.”

“I’m not a bum, I’m Katsura. But this house isn’t a random choice. For one thing, it’s widely known to be mostly abandoned.” Zura stands, patting the dust from his sleeves. Behind him there’s a flash of white and Gintoki tenses, only to relax again. It’s the ridiculous duck.

“Ah, Elizabeth, there you are. No need to worry, it was just these idiots moaning around out here.”

“Moaning?” says Gintoki, ignoring the idiots remark for the moment. “Wasn’t that you?”

Zura’s lip turns slightly. “ _No._ That disgusting sound woke me – I was coming out to see what it was when you cannoned into me.”

“Wait. If it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t us –” Gintoki looks around slowly, as if expecting a white-robed figure to appear out of thin air.

Zura folds his arms. “One of the other reasons for my choosing this mansion,” he admits, “was its reputation. It is supposed to be haunted.”

“Normal people take that as a reason to STAY AWAY!”

“Precisely. No fear of being bothered.”

Gintoki’s opening his mouth to respond to this, when he’s hailed from behind.

“Gin-chaaaaaaaaaan? Are you still alive? Gin-chaaaaaaaan?” Kagura pokes her head around the open door, peering into the darkness. Gintoki sighs.

“Aa. You’d better get your asses over here, you pair of useless cowards.” He waits while they creep in, alert to the possibility of a trap.

“Ah, Zura!” exclaims Kagura when her eyes have adjusted enough to be able to identify the long-haired man. “And Ellie!”

“Not Zura, Katsura,” says Zura.

“Good afternoon, Katsura-san,” adds Shinpachi. “What are you doing here?”

“Squatting,” interrupts Gintoki before Zura can answer. “But now that he’s here, he can help us look for the ghost.”

“Yay! Zura’s going to come ghost-hunting!” Kagura throws up her arms and does a little dance, making her seem for a moment like an innocent little girl rather than a violent bloodthirsty demon in human guise.

“I don’t remember agreeing to work for you,” says Zura, ignoring her.

“I don’t remember asking you to barge in on our work,” replies Gintoki. “But if you want to try to go back to sleep WHILE WE CRASH AROUND HUNTING FOR GHOSTS, GO RIGHT AHEAD, ZURA.” He finishes the sentence at a full-bore yell straight in Zura’s face. Zura stares back at him flatly, the two of them immediately locked in a staring war.

“Um,” says Shinpachi from behind them, “I’m sure that would be really helpful. But maybe we should get started? I think we should try to finish before nightfall, since we didn’t bring any flashlights.”

“How like you to come unprepared for your work,” says Zura, smirking.

“How like you to be squatting in someone else’s house.”

“How like you to be unaware of whose house it is.”

“How like you to – wait, what?” Gintoki stumbles to a halt and backs up, replaying the previous sentence. Zura’s face hardens and he looks away.

“Fine, then, We will help you. It will be faster if we split up into two groups. Elizabeth, will you go with Gintoki?”

“Hey, no way am I going anywhere with the creepy duck. Besides, explain your previous statement, you bastard!”

“Fine then, Elizabeth and I will go with Shinpachi-kun, and you can go with Kagura,” says Zura, ignoring him.

“Like hell. You can come with me and damn well tell me what’s going on here!” He grabs Zura’s collar and, slamming open the shoji door into one of the house’s inner rooms, drags Zura forward into the poor light.

Behind them, Elizabeth’s sign reads GOOD LUCK.

***

Even with a caretaker, the house hasn’t weathered the years well. The dark rooms smell of mildew and rotting tatami, air thick and musty. In the dim light, with Katsura’s _ki_ restive beside him, it’s irritatingly reminiscent of the old days. Of spending nights in tiny forgotten shrines and temples, their ancient timbers dark with age and still smelling of incense infused over centuries while everything else was broken and stained and dust-covered. They visited more than Gintoki can remember, the smell and the sense of age and emptiness and _abandonment_ all running together in his mind. And bringing with them the inevitable final memory: that by the time they left, the ancient buildings always smelt more of blood than anything else.

Below their stocking feet, the floorboards creak. The ones in the temples always did too, he remembers. When they didn’t collapse all together.

“So,” he says, as they walk through one dim room. The light is just enough to make out vague shapes by, to detect screens and walls before he runs into them. “Whose house is it?”

“I don’t see why I should tell you what you should already know,” says Katsura. “I’m not your nursemaid.”

“You could pass for one.” They reach a wall, and grope along it until they find the sliding shoji door and push it aside; it no longer sits properly in its grooves, and rattles in protest as Katsura shoves it along.

“That dowdy look is much more your style,” replies Katsura as they step into the new room; it’s even darker than the last. They must be in the very centre of the mansion, away from all windows and the bright sunlight outside. Gintoki looks around out of habit, but can hardly see anything here. Can’t even detect the far wall.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he mutters.

Off in the distance, there’s a prolonged thumping followed by a clatter; probably Shinpachi and Kagura breaking something. Losing his vein of thought, Gintoki glances in Katsura’s general vicinity. “Whose house is it, Zura?”

It’s cold here, with no light to warm the air. It may be that a cold breeze is coming up through the floor – possibly the wooden floorboards have begun to give in. Gintoki shivers slightly, and hitches his yukata higher on his shoulder. He draws his bokutou and uses it to sweep in front of him like a blind man with a cane, searching for obstacles. “Zura?” he says, when there’s no answer. It’s only then that he realises the Jyoui leader’s _ki_ hasn’t followed him into the new room – has he developed a fear of the dark? – and turns back to the room they were just in. “Whose house is this?”

“ _Not yours_ ,” hisses a wet voice from directly in front of him. There’s a burst of _ki_ now, cold and clammy, like sweat on cooling skin. No one feels like that; there is no human alive whose vital energy, however weak or corrupt or evil, feels cold. _Ki_ is the fire of the spirit, and although it’s a clichéd metaphor it’s also a valid description. The sensation of it against him makes Gintoki’s skin crawl.

Gintoki reacts before he’s actually identified the noise of a naked katana slicing through the air, swivels and blocks the blow whistling down at his head from behind and then pushes his attacker back into the better-lit room. He waits for the second strike, bokutou held in a stance ready to meet any attack, but it doesn’t come. He becomes aware, as he waits in the gloom, that there is only one silhouette here. And that he never heard Zura leave.

“Zura?” he says, very blandly.

“ _Wrong_ ,” says Zura’s silhouette, as the sword whistles towards him.

***

Kagura kicks her way through the dark mansion, followed by Elizabeth and Shinpachi. When she heard they were going ghost hunting, she’d been thrilled. Last week on the Midnight Hour they showed five episodes of Haunted Edo, complete with green light and groaning people in white kimonos and things flying around rooms all on their own. The Ghost Hunters had run around with big sticks covered in paper and bells and beaten the ghosts out. She’d been looking forward to beating some ghosts with her bare fists. But so far it’s all been boring.

The old house is smelly and dark, and Shinpachi keeps running into things, and Ellie keeps knocking over the cold sconces for the candles they don’t have. Kagura herself has broken several shoji doors by accident and a few walls on purpose, completely ignoring Shinpachi’s horrified screaming in her ears, but it hasn’t done anything. The ghosts don’t want to come out even for full-scale property damage, and she’s getting bored.

“Let’s go outside,” she suggests, shoving open a pair of shutters with complete disregard for the distressed whine they make before snapping under the force of her palm. “Look, it’s nice and sunny! Maybe the ghosts are in the garden!”

I LIKE SUNSHINE, reads Ellie’s sign.

“See, Shinpachi! Ellie agrees!”

“For the last time, the ghosts aren’t outside! If there are any, they’re in here somewhere. Probably down in a cold, pitch-black basement filled with spiders and rats. Or in the attic where the floors creak and the shutters knock in the wind and…” Shinpachi pauses, and then continues on in a brighter tone. “You know, maybe we _should_ go look in the garden. Gin-san and Katsura-san are already search the house, after all…”

Kagura likes the garden; it has koi big enough to eat for dinner and a real _shishi-odoshi_ that thunks down onto the rocks below with a satisfying sound. She happily heads towards the shutter-covered doors which doubtless open onto an engawa, currently-useless umbrella resting on her shoulder. And realises that, although Ellie’s pattering feet are following, they’ve lost the second pair of footsteps.

Kagura stops, and slowly looks to the side. Ellie’s standing there staring at her. Her sign reads: IT’S ALWAYS A MISTAKE TO TURN AROUND.

Kagura turns around.

It’s a mistake.


	2. Promises Aren't Something You Write Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Yorozuya get sent on an exorcism. Unsurprisingly, things do not go smoothly. (In progress) Contains semi-graphic war depictions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has (accidentally) trended a bit heavily towards Gin/Zura so I've changed the pairing label, but you could read it as strong friendship if you chose. Beta credit to the amazing Frauleinfrog.

Gintoki parries the thrust, the sharp edge of the katana sliding evenly over his bokutou and harmlessly past his shoulder. A moment later he’s parrying again, a standard head-blow that feels like a feint. Gintoki narrows his eyes and pushes back, forcing his opponent into the lighter room and staying on the balls of his feet. But no trap comes, and he blocks the next strike easily, still feeling as though the blows are trying to manoeuvre him towards something.

Gintoki doesn’t bother asking Zura what the hell he thinks he’s doing. He doesn’t need the spine-tingling dead-flesh ki to know that despite it being Zura’s hand on the blade, his opponent isn’t the Jyoui rebel. Zura’s style is precise and finished, more elegant than most thanks to his childhood tutors, and more exact than nearly all thanks to years of fighting for his life against overwhelming odds. This man has none of Zura’s elegance and not much of his exactness. And he keeps missing opportunities to capitalize on the open spots he is trying to drive Gintoki into.

Against Zura, he would be fighting for his life. Here, he’s fighting simply to buy himself time to figure out what the hell’s going on. But then, if there’s one thing ghosts are famous for, it’s possession.

“Oi, oi, no need to be angry.” He ducks a whistling strike at his head and sidesteps to avoid being backed into a corner. “No one wants this shitty house.”

“ _We are waiting for you_ ,” says the damp voice, in a tone entirely different from Zura’s stupidly serious one. It is worn and rough like a man with a cold, and has a wet catch to it. Zura’s probably going to have a hell of a case of laryngitis when he wakes up. Not necessarily a bad thing.

“Great, because –” begins Gintoki, and is interrupted.

“ _They are coming for us, Shiroyasha. Where are you now?_ ”

Gintoki can fight half conscious, half asleep, and completely drunk. This is all very fortunate, because it means his instincts kick in to keep him moving while his brain stalls at the sound of his old name.

 _How like you not to know whose house this is_. Zura’s stupid comeback echoes in his mind. Zura, who blathers like a madman but who rarely passes up a chance to build a second layer into his words, and who never says anything he doesn’t mean.

Gintoki can count on one hand the number of people in Edo who know him as the Shiroyasha. But then, that’s because the dead keep their secrets.

Gintoki tightens his grip and parries another blow, eyes hard now. He catches the next with a neat curve and pushes it away so hard he can hear the other man taking a stumbling step to keep his balance. The ancient floor gives a creaking whine. “Who the fuck are you?” he demands, straining his eyes to pierce the gloom. He can only see Zura’s vague silhouette moving smoothly through the darkened room, stalking like a panther.

“ _Can you hear them screaming? They are cutting us to pieces and leaving us to drown in our blood._ ” The voice is difficult to pin down, seems to come from all around him. Gintoki forces out a breath and relaxes his shoulders.

“That was ten years ago, you goddamn zombie. Snap the fuck out of it.”

As he stands waiting for the next blow with his sweat cooling on his clothes, Gintoki realises that the room is cold, much too cold. Colder than the worst days of winter, when icicles line the roofs and the sun looks pale and distant in a washed-out sky. The smell of must and rotting tatami is being overpowered by a metallic tang – iron. Blood.

“ _Your past is our present; your failure is our deaths. The humming of the guns, the screams of the wounded are our only prayers._ ”

The katana whistles as it slices through the air; Gintoki parries and moves, sensing the feint and avoiding it. No follow-up blow comes.

“Give me your name, and I’ll hire a monk to pray for you. A nice long ceremony, plenty of incense.” His jaw is starting to lock up with the cold; speaking is becoming more difficult.

“ _You are trying to buy our forgiveness? There is no price for what we gave. Shall I show you my scars, Shiroyasha?_ ”

Gintoki braces for an attack, and only realises the shift in his opponent’s intentions when the floor doesn’t creak in time with the sound of his blade being raised. Gintoki sprints across the space between them, bokutou already in motion, and catches the katana before it can stab downwards into Zura’s thigh. His deflection causes the blade to slice straight into the floor with a heavy _thunk._

“Who the _hell_ are you, you fucking bastard?” Heart pounding now, Gintoki kicks out to scythe his opponent’s legs out from under him, and meets with a right cross to his jaw. He stumbles away, head spinning, and hits the wall with a clatter of thin wood.

“ _Don’t you know? You gathered us, you protected us. You said you would give your life for ours. Where is it, Shiroyasha? Where is it, Sakata Gintoki?_ ”

There’s a soft metallic ringing as Zura’s katana is drawn from the floorboards. “ _All I see is you, alive, while I am dead._ ”

***

Once this past summer, Catherine cut off the power to the Yorozuya apartment for a whole week to try to starve them into paying their rent. On the sixth day Kagura got up in the morning and, still half asleep, went to the fridge and drank straight out of the milk carton.

She imagines her expression then was a lot like Shinpachi’s is now.

“H-hey, Shinpachi. What’s wrong? Did you suddenly think of something terrible? Was it Gorilla-san? Gorilla-san dressed as a French maid stripper?”

OR A NURSE STRIPPER, contributes Elizabeth. Kagura nods.

“That’s right, Shinpachi, listen to your elders. You shouldn’t think about things like that, your brain will melt. You should go wash it out with soap. Shinpachi?”

Shinpachi’s expression doesn’t change as he takes a wavering step forward, and she and Elizabeth both take one backwards. “Sh-Shinpachi? Was it worse than Gorilla-san?” Kagura, mind boggling, tries to imagine such an impossible thing. Her eyes widen in horror. “Was it _Ellie?_ Shinpachi, you _pervert!_ ”

Shinpachi takes another step forward, and Kagura backs up into the wall, trying to paste a smile on her face. It’s like trying to glue egg yolk to wet glass. “Shin –”

“ _I am not Shinpachi, little girl,_ ” moans Shinpachi, in a high wavering voice like a sick goat. His eyes, she can see now, are wide but unfocused, and there’s a tiny dribble of saliva running down from the side of his mouth.

Kagura blinks, and then raises a trembling hand to point. “G-g-g-ghost!”

“ _I wouldn’t mind some pictures of French maid strippers though. If you have them handy._ ”

Kagura blinks again. Then she punches Shinpachi straight in the jaw.

***

The smell of blood is almost overpowering now, the air cold and moist like the foggiest spring nights. In the darkness Gintoki knows only what he can smell and feel.

His senses tell him he is back on the battlefields of Hakodate in the last days of the war, with heavy night mist rolling in from the ocean while his hands and face slowly go numb from the near-freezing northern spring. Hakodate, where the rivers ran red and the soil was sown with corpses by the time the fighting stopped. Hakodate, where the Amanto brought in gunships rather than troops to finally end the war, and vaporized hundreds of samurai from the waist up.

Gintoki stands still, panting softly. If there were enough light, he knows he would be able to see his breath fogging. He can’t hear the other man breathing at all.

“We all carried our lives on our own shoulders,” he says slowly, tongue heavy, as he steps away from the wall. “I was no leader, and you were no follower.” Not by Hakodate. By then there was nothing left but to fight for their lives. A fight very nearly all of them lost.

“ _We died screaming for you._ Died _begging for you. And you left us in the mud._ ”

The floor creaks, and Gintoki parries again and remains ready to go on the offensive. Defending against the attacks, even in the dark, isn’t much of a challenge. But the strain of fending off attacks while stopping this bastard from hurting himself – from slicing Zura to ribbons – is already beginning to knot his muscles.

It’s a familiar tension. Barely being able to move at the end of the day with muscles stiff as iron rods from hours of protecting not just himself but anyone else he could reach, any one of dozens of men whose life might rest on his sword at any minute. The ever-present tension of trying to watch so many movements, so many battles, so many lives. And the unbearable awareness of what just one slip will mean choking him like wire around his throat.

He’s shivering, Gintoki realises from afar, as though he were watching someone else. Here in the dark, he isn’t fighting a man. Isn’t fighting Zura’s form, Zura’s weight, Zura’s sword. He is fighting the past. Fighting, as he does in all his nightmares, the weight of the faceless dead he couldn’t save.

“ _Where were you, Shiroyasha? Where was your blade when we were torn to pieces?_ ”

In the bright sunshine, on the Amanto-ridden streets of Edo that are now all iron and glass and neon, Gintoki has learned to live with the past. Has learned to lock away what he can, and keep a hawk-sharp guard on the rest.

But this isn’t Edo. This is Hakodate, and even the Shiroyasha can’t fight hundreds of dead men.

His movements are slowing, he can feel it. He’s a spectator, watching everything from afar. Gintoki’s throat is ringed with wire again, muscles knotting tight as he tries to watch for strikes aimed at Zura and the fear builds in him that he won’t be fast enough. He coughs, and nearly steps into a shoulder-strike, only dodges by the skin of his teeth.

His skin is numb with the cold, head filled with the scent of blood and death. It’s been too long, he’s forgotten how to live with this. How to fail so many without breaking. How to walk through a field of corpses and not scream.

“ _Show me what you promised us, Shiroyasha. Let me cut the life out of you._ ”

***

“You’re just a perverted old fart!” accuses Kagura, kicking Shinpachi in the back of the knee and catching him in a headlock. “Let go of Shinpachi, he’s too young to become a pervert!”

“ _Choking… me…_ ”

“Good! Get out!” She lets go of her stranglehold and slips her arms around his waist from behind, preparing to do the Heimlich. “Gin-san says,” she gives a jerk, “if you get something bad,” another jerk, “caught in you,” another jerk, “you’ve gotta get it out!”

In her arms, Shinpachi makes an ugly puking sound, and she releases him before he can retch on her arms. He collapses face down on the carpet, in a vaguely grovelling aspect.

“Shinpachi?”

“ _If I say yes, will you leave me alone?_ ”

Kagura raises a fist, and the ghost backs away with its arms up in surrender. “ _Please,_ ” it wails piteously, “ _listen to me. Your friend is in danger._ ”

“Gin-san?” Kagura pauses, considering. “Are there a lot of parfaits? Gin-san gets sick if he eats too much sugar, and he’s already had one this week. It couldn’t be – did you put laxatives in them? That’s _cruel_ , you –” she takes a step forward, and the ghost cowers.

“ _No, no! No parfaits. It’s my son._ ”

Kagura shrugs. “That’s not a problem. Gin-san beat up a crazy Amanto elephant last week. I got to ride it afterwards. I fed it peanuts, and it was sick all over Shinpachi. There aren’t any peanuts where it’s from, Gin-san says, although I think that’s just lazy importing. Peanut butter is one of the great glues of the cosmos, how can you not have it?”

HAS ANYONE SEEN THE TOPIC RECENTLY? Inquires Elizabeth’s sign; Kagura ignores it.

“ _My son fought in the war,_ ” continues the ghost, speaking mostly to himself. “ _He’s been waiting, all this time. Revenge is all he thinks about. Ah, his poor mother, it would have broken her heart…_ ”

“I’m telling you, your stupid son can’t beat Gin-san. Or even Zura, probably,” she concedes.

KATSURA-SAN IS AN EXCELLENT SAMURAI.

“ _We loved him too much, I suppose; kept him alone too much. He learned to look up to others, not to make friends. I used to walk him home from kendo practice every evening; the dojo was more than an hour away, past Yoshiwara even._ ”

“You just wanted to go to Yoshiwara, you perverted geezer.”

“ _And his mother, she made his lunches herself every day, mended all his clothes herself despite all the servants…_ ”

“Get to the point.” Kagura crosses her arms.

The ghost nods vaguely, and shifts to sit cross-legged. “ _Are you an only child, girl?_ ”

Kagura narrows her eyes, but shakes her head.

“ _Then you won’t understand Kenji._ ” Kagura opens her mouth, but the ghost continues on without noticing. “ _He was the centre of his own world – a rich heir to a prominent family. Such a serious, single-minded boy. He learned to respect his superiors, and ignore his inferiors, and that was all. He had no friends, no equals. Just himself, and Kenji learned very young how very valuable he was._

 _“And then the Jyoui war broke out, and the Amanto invaded Edo. Of course, the rich districts were the primary targets – so easy to cripple a country by crippling its economy. We sent Kenji away to Kumamoto… he was safe there. I should have sent my wife as well. He should never have lost both parents at once._ ”

Kagura blinks; the ghost wipes at Shinpachi’s glasses.

“ _Of course, the young fool went and joined the Jyouishishi at once. Poured most of our family money into their coffers. He was a very good swordsman – all that practice, you know. A natural at such a difficult style. And absolutely dedicated to the cause. But that wasn’t enough._

 _“He never had friends there, I don’t think. Never learned how – not so much shy as uncomprehending. He had idols instead. I told you he only knew how to look up to others, or look down on them. The leaders there, he worshipped. Gave them everything: his money, his loyalty, his life. But he always knew, knew, how much he himself was worth. How much what he had given was worth. And he thought he deserved so much – deserved everything in return for that._ ” The ghost sighs. “ _If only he could have met a pretty girl with a nice rack, he would have learned to interact more reasona –_ ” Kagura’s fist connects with his cheek, and he is bowled over.

“I told you, old man,” she says, rubbing her knuckles absently. “Gin-san won’t lose to your stupid son.”

“ _You’re too young; you don’t understand. It is my son’s obsession – his_ conviction – _that he has not received what he is owed that is dangerous, not my son. He won’t be fighting my son._ ”

The old man gets up slowly. Turns to look at her with a pitying look in his eyes; Kagura feels a chill run down her spine.

“ _He will be fighting himself._ ”

***

Gintoki ducks a strike, and is forced to roll hastily when the rubber of his boot catches abruptly on the floor. For some reason he’s having trouble keeping track of where the walls are, keeps bumping into them. They seem wrong, shouldn’t be here. They should be out in the open, on softer ground. He can smell the sea air, thick and choking. That and the blood, scent so heavy he can taste it at the back of his throat.

“ _You don’t even think about us, do you, Shiroyasha? Easier to forget. The past doesn’t matter. Your promises, your friends, your betrayal, they don’t matter. It’s just so much simpler to forget us all. You can just put us up on a shelf and pretend we are just one more closed box. Pretend our blood hasn’t stained you black._ ”

For an instant, Gintoki almost imagines he hears the sound of the sea, the gentle rush of waves over pebbles. He shakes his head, and barely avoids a slash at his stomach.

“ _Do you hear it now, Shiroyasha? You can’t pretend anymore. It’s time to give up what you promised us._ ”

There are other sounds in the distance, so faint he can barely make them out. Like a subtle flaw in a pattern or a low buzz of static in a song track, his attention is drawn inexorably towards it. He ducks a blow by instinct rather than thought, sluggishly parries another cutting towards his throat.

“Archers! Second volley, fire!”

Gintoki makes a low sound in his throat. But the sounds are growing louder, coming closer.

“Regroup, regroup!”

“There’s another division coming in from the north!”

“Third volley, fire!”

This is wrong. It happened like this, but it’s wrong. He was there, it was like this, smelled like this sounded like this. But … it’s wrong. His mind is fighting to be heard, trying to tell him why, trying to be heard.

But it is like this. They are here on this windy beach, and nothing can change that now. There is no way out, no way back and only one way forward. Somehow they never really believed it would come to this. _Couldn’t_ believe it would come to this.

They are all going to die here.

Gintoki steps around a fallen body, feels another blow deflected and hears the ringing of his katana’s steel. There are gunboats coming in, he can hear the low hum of their engines over the waves. Dozens of them, hovering like dark ravens in the stormy sky, waiting to pick over the dead. He hears the men shouting desperate warnings.

“Clear the beach, clear the beach!”

“Holy fuck – from the south, the south!”

“Clear the goddamn beachhead, they’re –”

And then the electric buzz of the beam cannons. They are brighter than fireworks, brighter than the sun. And they slice, sharper than steel, straight through the army of samurai. Blades, shields, armour, none of them make the least bit of difference. They are like cobwebs under a hail of arrows. In a single flash of light, dozens of men he knew are gone. Dead, without ever knowing what hit them. And they are the lucky ones.

The screams echo over the open fields, carried by the biting sea breeze. Men shouting for help, shrieking in agony, begging for someone to save them. They are all around him, crying out from everywhere – dozens, hundreds. Their voices, frantic and piercing, drown out all other sounds.

Gintoki trips, stumbles and rolls over the hard earth. His bloody blade slices a furrow in the ground. There are hands grabbing at his ankles, cold fingers digging into his flesh. Men desperate not to die here on this godforsaken beach are latching feverishly to his legs, begging him to save them.

“ _Where are you, Shiroyasha? Where are you? Why won’t you save us?_ ”

He stumbles to his feet, panting hard, and feels a blade slice across his ribs. He hardly notices the stinging pain. His sweat is dripping off him, hair cold and damp in the fog. All around him the dying are screaming, and still the beam cannons are firing, cutting down more, more, more. Too many to know, too many to understand. Nothing makes sense, he can’t, can’t, can’t…

The ocean is turning red, the foam tipping the waves pink. The only thing he can smell is blood, thick as tar and in his nose, his mouth, choking him. He gags, tries to suck in air. Dead hands are pulling him down, down, down into the dirt to die with them.

“ _Help us – help us – help us! Shiroyasha! Where are you?_ ”

Gintoki screams.

He spins, katana slicing a bloody line in the air. Tries to free himself from the blood, the cries, the desperate pleas. They are pressing in on him, smothering him, crushing the air from his lungs and pouring black blood down his throat in replacement. Gintoki slices blindly at the air and strikes something. He reaches out to grab it and barely misses, the tips of his fingers passing over cloth. Someone steps by him, and he feels long hair brush against his cheek as he swerves. Smells, just for an instant, a scent other than blood: sweat and soap and a hint of bitter citrus.

Zura.

Zura, who fought beside him at Hakodate.

Zura, who should be here right now.

To Gintoki it seems that the world tilts very suddenly, so sharply that he stumbles to keep his balance. And somehow, like a two-lane road that becomes one with no warning, half of the world cuts out.

The air is still cold and reeks of blood, but there is only silence now. No screams, no cannons firing, no waves lapping against the beach. The ground beneath him is the solid smoothness of a wooden floor, not of an uneven field by the shore.

There is no katana in his hand, just a bokutou.

In the silence, he can finally hear his thoughts. Hear the mantra they have been trying to get through to him: _That was the past, this is now. That was the past, this is now. That was the past, this is now._

Gintoki takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Zura,” he pants, back bent in exhaustion, “get your lazy ass out here.”


	3. Sorry is a Word that Doesn't Mean Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic war scenes.

“Zura, I’m getting bored of cleaning up after your goddamn messes.” He forces himself to stand straight, and sweeps aside a head blow.

Zura, or rather the thing that’s wearing Zura like a puppet, doesn’t seem to be tired at all. He breathes silently, without coughing or sniffing in the cold air, and makes no noise even when parrying bone-shaking blows. The longer they fight, the more Gintoki begins to feel the stress; it is like constant strikes to the back of his neck, something he can’t parry forever. Zura _should_ be breathing heavily by now. The fact that he isn’t means he’s not getting enough air, is effectively suffocating.

“ _You can’t have him, Shiroyasha. He is as guilty as you, and when you have paid your dues he will follow. I will spill his blood until these dusty floors shine with it._ ”

“You can shut up now,” says Gintoki, blandly, hands holding the bokutou tightening to a crushing grip. “You’ve had your turn, it’s time for the real people to talk.” He steps under a blow, sending it flying a little higher with a sharp deflection.

“Oi, Zura, did you hear that? I just complimented you. Let’s see some gratitude here, you gloomy bastard.” He tries to trap his opponent in the corner, and nearly gets a knee to the gut. He turns his dodge into a grab, catching hold of Zura’s shoulder and spinning him around; the heavy cloth of his kimono is damp with the foggy air.

“Zura, if you don’t start making some kind of effort here you bastard, I’m going to come over there and beat the crap out of you.”

“ _He can’t hear you, Shiroyasha. He is here with me, on the battlefield._ ”

“The fuck is new?” Gintoki locks his jaw, skin crawling. Zura was an excellent fighter, but he was a crap soldier for the simple reason that he cared too damn much. They all dealt with the war in different ways: Gintoki buried himself, Sakamoto ran away, Takasugi took a match to the world. Only Zura refused to accept it was over. Refused to accept that hundreds of his comrades were massacred, while he lived on in an Edo controlled by Amanto. The weight of that denial has warped him more than a little.

And now he’s trapped back inside it, like a man locked in a cage with a shark. The only question is whether he drowns or is torn to pieces.

Gintoki drives forward hard, his blow caught on the katana, and continues pushing. “Zura,” he grits, staring at the darkness in front of him, “I’m losing my patience here. Want me to cut off your stupid hair, you goddamn slacker?”

“ _Can you hear him screaming for you, Shiroyasha? Will you ignore him, too?_ ”

It’s too familiar. Gintoki knows where he is, and he knows what he’s fighting. But his fears from ten years ago are vivid as new blood, cut into every turn of his mind. And this is striking all of them, scraping a knife over raw nerves.

Below his damp skin, under his fingernails, between each heaving rib he can feel the Shiroyasha pooling. Slipping over him like armour, and separating the world neatly into black and white.

But nothing here is black and white, and that will only get one of them killed. Time is getting short.

Gintoki crushes his instincts momentarily. He dodges a strike and shifts into the space it is trying to manoeuvre him towards – he doesn’t know why, but there is never a trap waiting there – and twists his blade up under the tsuba of Zura’s sword. One clean wrench pulls it from his opponent’s hands and sends it flying across the room.

“ _I will drown him in his own blood. Or do you think you can stop me, Shiroyasha?_ ”

“Want to see it in slow motion?” Gintoki sweeps Zura’s feet out from under him with a kick and dives forward, a forearm across the rebel’s chest driving him down. Gintoki lands on his knees and elbows, straddling Zura’s waist and pinning him down. Gintoki slams Zura’s right arm to the ground with his left, and finds his wrist cold and clammy – corpselike.

A knee tries to rise to drive him off; Gintoki shifts his weight and traps it. “Don’t make me play Prince Charming you bastard, or I’ll make you wear a dress for the rest of your natural life.” He bends low, refusing to be dislodged.

“ _He is already mine_ ,” whispers the son of a bitch, breath cold in Gintoki’s face.

“Zura, _wake the fuck up!_ ” He strikes the _Jyoui_ rebel across the face and then, grasping at straws, “The lines are breaking, get your ass the hell back here! _ZURA!_ ” He slams Zura’s shoulders into the floorboards.

From beneath him rises a low choking sound. It turns into a moan, and increases into a wordless yell. Zura bucks like a horse, fighting desperately against Gintoki’s grip and screaming with his head thrown back. Gintoki stops bothering to pin him with knees and elbows and simply drops to lie on top of him, flattening Zura beneath his greater weight.

Mouth against Zura’s ear, he says in a low voice, “Zura, we need you. Wake up.”

Somewhere above, the rafters creak, wind flowing through the ancient house. It sounds almost like a groan. Zura stops screaming and goes abruptly limp, dropping down heavily onto the floor.

Gintoki blinks without otherwise moving, waiting in the dark silence. And then, so quiet he can hardly make out the syllables,

“Gin-toki.”

It’s enough to make him pause. Only three samurai in the war ever called him by his given name, and none of them are dead. The frigid, inhuman ki is disappearing quick as sand spread by the wind. Slowly, so very slowly, Zura’s flickers back to life like a flame taking gradual hold of damp wood.

“Zura?” Gintoki releases Zura’s wrists, and then eases to his elbows and knees. Zura coughs and turns onto his side, Gintoki hopping awkwardly to the side to get off him.

“Did I fall in?” asks Zura, sounding very confused and also a bit drunk. He’s slurring his words, and from the low rustling of fabric may be shivering. The room is warming up, the stink of blood fading as quick as it appeared. Sensation is coming back to Gintoki’s skin with a prickly tingling feeling.

Gintoki stands, picking up his bokutou from where it fell.“In what, idiot? You were possessed, possessed. By an evil spirit.”

Zura coughs again, but doesn’t make to get up. “This place must be full of them.” He sounds resigned, as well as very tired. Gintoki pauses, raising his eyebrows slowly.

“The mansion? Why?”

In the poor light, Gintoki can nevertheless see Zura turn slowly to look at him. It’s still several seconds before he answers. “Mansion? It’s just a hut.” He shivers audibly now, floor creaking. “And there must be hundreds of corpses outside.”

***

“What’re you talking about, old man?” Kagura’s eyebrows furrow as she contemplates the ghost currently inhabiting Shinpachi.

Sitting cross-legged with his back bent like a fishhook and peering short-sightedly through Shinpachi’s gasses, the old ghost sighs.

“ _Have you ever done something your parents forbid you to do, girl? Something you knew you absolutely shouldn’t, but you did anyway?_ ”

Kagura gives him an unimpressed look. “Of course. One time I beat the crap out of Shizo for being a cry-baby, and one time I stayed up all night watching _Mafia vs Alien_ and then afterwards beat the crap out of Shizo for looking like Alien. And one time I spilt ice cream on my dress, and beat the crap out of Shizo for – I forget why, but he probably deserved it.”

“ _Yes, well. When you do things that are wrong, you feel guilty, right?_ ” The ghost, seeing Kagura’s puzzled look, quickly amends its statement. “ _You worry, right? And why do you worry? Not because you’re afraid your parents will be angry, but because you know you did something wrong._ ”

Kagura frowns. “Are you kidding? I knew Pappy would spank the hell out of me. What kind of sissy feels guilty for beating the crap out of Shizo?”

“ _MOST PEOPLE_ ,” explodes the ghost, “ _feel guilty for their mistakes. That guilt is much stronger than fear that someone will reprimand them_.”

“Only because they’ve never been spanked by Pappy,” says Kagura.

“ _WHAT I’M SAYING IS, your friends don’t need my son to break them. All they need is their own guilt_.”

“Gin-chan doesn’t know what guilt _is_. Last week he watched Lady’s Four without me, and _didn’t even tape it_.”

“ _Can you imagine what it’s like to see someone die because you couldn’t save them, girl? Because you made a mistake, or were late, or simply couldn’t do anything?_ ”

Kagura’s eyes harden. She leans forward, tone clipped. “What’s your point, old man?”

“ _Now imagine seeing_ hundreds _die because you couldn’t save them. Do you really think they feel no guilt?_ ”

***

For a minute, Gintoki says nothing. Then he relaxes and crosses over to Zura’s side on nearly-steady legs. His own shivering at least seems to have faded with the cold. “The hell’re you talking about, moron? We’re in the middle of Nihonbashi. Nothing but ugly-ass department stores and stuck up restaurants for miles.”

He walks over to the hall, and rips open the now-crooked fusuma doors. Walks through the next room, and opens the doors looking out onto the garden. Outside, the sun is shining, butterflies are flitting through the garden, and the shishi-odoshi is thunking regularly. Gintoki opens another set of doors for good measure, and then returns.

If Zura didn’t look like Okiku before, he certainly does now. His skin is an unhealthy grey colour, moist with sweat, while his long hair lies in a seaweed-like mess around his head. Lying on his side, partially curled in on himself, he looks like nothing so much as a man wracked by fever. But his eyes are clear, and his breathing slow and regular. He stares past Gintoki at the green garden in puzzlement.

“Aa,” he says eventually, as Gintoki squats down beside him and rests his bokutou on his knees. “I was staying here, with Elizabeth. But… we were fighting the Amanto. On the beaches of Hakodate. The air stank of salt. And blood. Always blood,” he says more quietly, closing his eyes.

“Oi, Zura, did that ghost melt your brain? That was ten years ago.” Gintoki presses a hand against Zura’s forehead purely for show, and finds his skin shockingly cold. But it’s the fact that Zura doesn’t protest the name that sends shivers down his spine.

“They brought out the gunships. I remember the waves, the way they split the water beneath them like a knife through dry rice. There was – panic, shouting. The beams sounded like summer cicadas,” he adds thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes. I was there too, Zura. We don’t need a history lesson.”

Zura takes no notice. Just keeps blathering on, twisting the knife deeper. “There was screaming – so much, all over. Until I couldn’t remember what quiet was like. It’s like swallowing glass, like sand in my throat.”

Gintoki looks down at him sharply. “Zura, stop it.” He takes Zura’s shoulder in a rough grasp, shakes him. “Zura, we’re in Edo. Snap out of it, dammit.”

“Someone’s carrying me to the shack – fishing nets for bedding, floats for pillows,” continues Zura blandly, as if recounting what he had for lunch. Apparently unaware he’s switched tenses. Apparently unaware he’s lying here on a rotting wooden floor in the middle of an Edo made of steel and glass. “They’re carrying me because I can’t walk; my legs – my legs – gone –”

For just an instant, Zura’s eyes flash wide in pain and terror.

Gintoki, sensing this is about to go very bad very fast, lets go of his shoulder and punches him hard across the jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his hand.

Zura, breathing hard all of the sudden, blinks several times. He raises an uncertain hand to run across his jaw. And then he looks up at Gintoki, eyes narrowing.

“What happened, Gintoki?” he demands, and there is real fear there.

“I told you, you were possessed. Haunted. Taken over. By some bastard from the war.” Gintoki softens slightly. “You weren’t injured at Hakodate, Zura.”

There’s a pause, and then Zura nods. Closes his eyes, and rolls onto his back on the hard floor. He raises an arm to cover his eyes. “It’s not Zura,” he says eventually, tired voice partially muffled by his sleeve. “It’s Katsura.”

Gintoki feels a twisting tension he wasn’t quite aware of melt away from his shoulders, and slumps into a more relaxed posture.

“You’re such a slacker, Zura. Leaving poor Gin-san here to deal with this all on his own. Apologies won’t be enough, you know. You had better start saving your undercover earnings; you’re going to be buying my weekly parfait for the next year. Don’t think I’ll go easy on you; all the toppings _and_ the wafer. Aa, and my milk, too.”

“Your habits are disgusting. It’s no wonder you have such a terrible personality; it is surely a judgement.” He’s still speaking slowly, but he’s managing to drawl out the usual drivel. Gintoki kicks him in the side, mostly on principle. If he doesn’t kick him as hard as he might otherwise, well, it’s hard to kick someone while squatting.

“Zura, why do you have to be such a wet blanket? You sound like an old woman. Are you just going to lie there all day, you useless granny?”

“Not granny; Katsura. I’ll get up when I’m ready,” he adds, more reluctantly, lowering his arm. He stares at the ceiling, face hard. He has shadows under his eyes, Gintoki can see now, and his eyelids are heavy.

“Oi. Now’s no time to be taking a nap. If you fall asleep here, Gin-san isn’t going to carry you home. You’ll get your soul stolen and have to live here, until the house is eaten away by wormwood and you end up haunting an antique store.”

“Why haven’t you already sold your brain to medical research? You would make a fortune.”

***

“So what do we do, then?” asks Kagura, sharply. “How do we beat up your stupid son?”

I HAVE SOME TIME BOMBS, volunteers Elizabeth.

“Great! Let’s use those!”

“ _No, no, that won’t work._ ”

THEY HAVE EXCELLENT WORKMANSHIP.

“ _NO! Weapons won’t harm him, only your friends._ ”

THEY HAVE A VARIETY OF SETTINGS AND COME IN PINK, YELLOW AND BLUE.

“ _WE ARE NOT USING BOMBS_ ,” shrieks the ghost.

“Old man, is that still you? You’re starting to sound a lot like Shinpachi.”

“ _Look, the best thing you can do is to get your friends, and leave. My son can’t leave the house. If you go, you’ll be safe._ ”

“Our job is to get rid of him! We can’t just leave him here! How do we defeat him?”

“ _You can’t._ ”

Kagura’s arm snaps out and grabs the front of Shinpachi’s gi. She brings him in close, glaring. “You said you wanted to stop him, old man. You said that right now, he’s trying to kill Gin-chan. So tell us how to defeat him.”

The ghost stares back at her with level eyes. “ _I told you, you can’t. The only way for him to leave is by choice, either if he achieves his revenge or forgives your friends. And imagined wrongs can never be forgiven. So go find your friends, and leave. Now._ ”

“Old man?”

Shinpachi stands abruptly, turns to face the door. Kagura sees nothing there, but the shadows on the roof flicker and flare while the sunlight remains constant.

“ _You can’t have them, Kenji. This is enough. Stop now._ ”

The door slams open and then shut again. No one is there.

“ _There is no point to this; what’s past is past. Let them go, Kenji. It isn’t their fault._ ”

All along the wall leading into the garden, the doors rattle as if in a windstorm. Shinpachi tilts his head.

“ _Then at least let these ones go. They were just children then. They have nothing to do with this._ ”

Around the room, the walls begin to shake. Dust falls from the ceiling like dirty snow, and the tatami mats tremble against each other.

“ _No, Kenji. I couldn’t protect you before, but I can now. I won’t let you blacken your soul by destroying them._ ” As one, all the doors in the room slam shut. They rattle in their frames, but don’t open again. After a minute, they fall silent. Kagura opens her mouth, and feels a chill run down her spine. She turns around slowly.

Across the room, the light shoji door facing out onto the bright garden begins to darken. It slowly turns to grey, and then to black. The shadow on it pulses, edges growing and shrinking. As the seconds tick by, it pulls in from the edges towards the centre. Gradually, a shape forms. A man with a sword in each hand, coming nearer. The room begins to darken. And Kagura, tilting her head, almost thinks that she can hear footsteps.

“ _You can’t have them. Especially this girl. She’s far too cute – when she grows up, she’ll be a full-blown knock-out!_ ”

Kagura smacks him upside the head.

The shadow on the shoji door raises one of its swords to strike. From behind, Elizabeth throws a bomb. It explodes with a burst of noise and flames, filling the room with dust and smoke.

The walls rattle again, stronger this time. Kagura makes for the door.

“I’ve gotta warn Gin-chan. Come on, Ellie.” She puts her hand in the handle, and pulls. Nothing happens. She frowns, and pulls harder, turning to use her weight against it. It doesn’t budge.

“ _Sorry, little girl_ ,” says the ghost, sitting down. “ _But I’m afraid until this is over, I can’t let you leave here._ ”

Kagura turns. “What do you mean, over?”

“ _I told you. Either Kenji will forgive them, or he will have his revenge. And since he will never forgive them, they will never leave here again. I’m sorry, little girl._ ”

“Sorry,” says Kagura, turning back to launch a round-house kick at the door, “is a word that doesn’t mean anything!”

***

Gintoki is reaching down to shake Zura into a greater state of wakefulness, when he’s distracted by what sounds like an explosion from the other end of the house.

He stares out towards it for a minute, and then turns to look at Zura. “You didn’t leave that stupid duck any explosives, did you?”

“Elizabeth has impeccable judgement,” replies Zura. Then, after a beat, “And also perhaps a few time bombs.”

“Prioritise your statements, dammit!” He stands, slipping his bokutou into his obi, and then walks across the room to retrieve Zura’s katana. “Well, I suppose now I’m going to have to clean up after its mess,” he mutters, as he bends to pick it up. “Be ready for a shit-load of invoices, Zura, I just got a new pad.”

On the other side of the room, Zura makes a low noise in his throat.

“That’s right, you should be worried. Maybe you should have considered that _before_ getting possessed.” He turns to return Zura’s sword, and freezes. Zura is glaring at him.

Or, more accurately, at whatever is behind him.

Gintoki swivels, bringing up the katana in a swift strike.

It slices straight through the shadow. And then there is nothing but darkness.

And, in the distance, the sound of the ocean.


	4. Holding Onto Each Other Doesn't Always Stop You Falling Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic war scenes

The ocean always smells the same. If he closes his eyes, there is nothing to distinguish this remote Hokkaido beach from the bustling harbour of Edo where he grew up. Even the gulls wheeling high overhead sound the same, crying _home, home, home._

(but you didn’t grow up in Edo, he –)

When he was young, his tutors taught him that the ocean ties this country together. It is the ocean that makes them all one people; it is their cradle, their breadbasket, their lifeblood. No matter their home, they all share the waves.

Here on the beaches of Hakodate, fighting to save the soul of Japan, it is the ocean alone that guards their backs.

The men are striking down the tents now, as the sun rises somewhere behind thick clouds. They call them tents because words are important, words are what define things, but it would be much more accurate to call them torn scraps of fabric. There is no real canvas left in the camp; the last of it went to make stretchers, and didn’t return. Those fortunate enough to have shelter to strike are folding up sheets, straw mats, or their own clothes. He folds up fabric of what was once an expensive and ornately-patterned pair of hakama and tucks them away beneath the roots of a pine tree.

All around him men are preparing, their movements tired but determined. Armour is pulled on, swords are slipped through obi and belts, prayers are said. He sits down to eat the last of the mouldy onigiri he has saved, while staring across the shallow path beaten into grass to the tent pitched lopsidedly there.

The Shiroyasha rose early today, is already starting to take down the sheets that make up his tent with a very bland expression while Katsura Kotarou harangues him. Off the battlefield, they are almost like a comedy duo, and he doesn’t understand it at all. The Shiroyasha sticks a finger in his ear and looks off into the distance. Katsura strikes him on the head with a support pole. They get back to their work. He watches, elbow resting on his knee, and waits for them to become something approachable again.

All men here take their cue from the Shiroyasha. He learned that from the men the day he joined. He learned it for himself the day he first fought, and saw the silver-haired man slicing down mountainous aliens with unquenchable fire. The men get ready when he appears, they attack when he charges, and they retreat with him. He has the charisma, not of a leader, not of a general, but of a survivor. A man who will never, ever give up. Who will always emerge alive and victorious. And that is what they all want, with all their hearts.

(but that’s wrong, _you_ were –).

The Shiroyasha and Katsura have finished their packing, if not their dispute. Others are trickling over to join them now, some of the most famous faces of the campaign: Takasugi Shinsuke, Sakamoto Tatsuma, Inoue Kaeru, Yamagata Arimoto.

The foolishness done, he finishes his rice and wanders over to skirt along the edges of the informal meeting. They note him and leave him alone, which is fine by him. Respect is essential, friendship is unnecessary effort.

Sakamoto, Inoue and Yamagata are joking about something or other; Katsura and Takasugi are speaking very intensely in low voices. The Shiroyasha is standing further on, watching the sea wash up against the shore.

(yes, that’s right, that’s how it…)

“And then I said, ahaha, is that your mother or a walrus…” Sakamoto scratches the back of his head, laughing as always.

“…twenty, coming in from the south,” Katsura is saying to Takasugi, who stands with his arms crossed, scowling.

The Shiroyasha is standing on the edge of a bluff above the beach, staring off into the distance. His clothes haven’t been cleaner than grey for weeks, and like everyone else his face is hollow and wane. The Bakufu folded long ago, and they have been fighting without support since before he himself joined and leant his own coffers to the movement. Now, his funds gone as well, they are exhausted and starving, abandoned by even the country they are dying to save.

Still, the Shiroyasha looks unconcerned as he watches the blue waves wash over the shore. His pale face is empty, as though his thoughts are focused on something far out of sight. But then, no one ever knows what the Shiroyasha is thinking.

(no, _you_ were looking at the ocean, at the white gulls over grey waves –)

He comes up behind the silver-haired man quietly and crosses his arms over his chest. “When I was a boy, I was taught the sea would protect us.”

The Shiroyasha looks around just slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Eventually the samurai says, “I guess your teacher wasn’t farsighted enough. The only thing that can protect us now is each other.” He looks back to the sea. “If that’s all we can protect, we’ll be lucky.”

“Each other? We’re here to save the country!”

(no, that’s not what you wanted, that’s never what you wanted – )

“Are you?” Below, a wave comes in to rush over pale stones. As it pours away again, the Shiroyasha turns to face him. His face is cold and expressionless, frighteningly so.

“I’m here to kill every last one of those bastards who dares to set foot on our soil. We aren’t fighting for each other, we’re fighting for what’s ours. For what we lost, what we _all_ lost to those _things_. We’re here because we will never forgive what they took from us! What the hell do we matter to each other – how could we be worth what’s already been lost?”

(you weren’t trying to win a war, you weren’t fighting for revenge –)

The Shiroyasha stares at him, red eyes the dull colour of old blood in the grey day. “How could what’s gone be worth more than what we have now?”

“You don’t know what’s been lost – you can’t _understand_ everything that’s been taken by those bastards, that’s been given to this war. Penniless, homeless ronin?” He gestures at the dirt-covered men behind him. “They could never match a _tenth_ of what I – we – have lost!”

(no. you just wanted to stop them from throwing their lives away, you just wanted them to live –)

“You don’t understand anything,” says the Shiroyasha calmly.

(no, it was you speaking. _this_ is you. this _is you. THIS IS YOU. LISTEN!_ )

Gintoki blinks, and sways. There are two worlds overlaying each other, like looking in a window and seeing both his reflection and the outside. The beaches of Hakodate, and the dark mansion room.

“It’s not working, you bastard,” he says thickly, taking a step and staggering as the two grounds don’t match up.

“ _Yes, it is._ ”

Gintoki takes another step, misses his footing, and falls into darkness.  


  
***  


“ _You can’t break it down,_ ” says the ghost calmly, as Kagura launches herself against the nearest wall. She rebounds like a racquetball, tumbles head over heels once and comes up in a crouch. She bounces right back again, only to be repelled again.

Elizabeth stands by watching unblinkingly. THIS ISN’T WORKING.

“Don’t give up, Ellie!” Kagura launches herself back at the wall.

NO, THIS IS JUST RIDICULOUS.

Kagura hits the wall at an angle and ricochets off, rolling across the floor like a log and slamming into the opposite wall.

Panting, Kagura stands up and turns to look at Shinpachi. “If you won’t let us out, we just have to get rid of you,” she says, raising her fist.

The ghost raises its hands placatingly. “ _No, no, that won’t work. It won’t hurt me_.”

Kagura smiles, eyes shining. “Are you sure?”

The ghost stands, waving its hands in earnest. “ _Absolutely. We can’t be forced out from outside._ ”

“But it’ll still hurt.”

“ _You’ll just injure your friend!_ ” wails the ghost.

“That’s okay.” Kagura pulls back her fist. “If I hit him hard enough, he won’t remember it was me.”  


  
***  


He is lying on his back on the hard ground, staring up at the seagulls pinwheeling in the dark sky. Their screeching isn’t nostalgic anymore, doesn’t remind him of home. Now it’s almost indistinguishable from the shrieking of the men dying all around him.

The ocean behind them is no longer their guardian, no longer their sole remaining ally. Over the grey waves dozens of ships are hovering, bright beams slicing through the sky, through the earth, through the men. Bright as the swords of the gods, and just as unpredictable.

No. Not unpredicted.

 _I guess your teacher wasn’t foresighted enough,_ the Shiroyasha said, obtusely. The Shiroyasha, who knew the whole time that this was coming, that the ocean at their backs was no guardian. Was nothing but an arrow, guiding their enemies straight to the unprotected beach. Knew it, and _hid it from him_. From _him_ , the man who single-handedly saved this starving campaign, who gave _everything_ and asked for so little in return, for just what he _deserved._

(that’s not right, you were there, you knew the ships were coming, and there was still _nothing you could do_ –)

There is no battle now, just a rout. Men screaming for help, men running for their lives, men dying all around him. Far off, the Shiroyasha is running over the dark earth. Directing men with sweeps of his sword while dragging others out of harm’s way.

I’m here, he wants to shout. _Notice me! Help me!_ Save _me!_ But he can’t get the words out of his throat. He can barely breathe, barely force air into his lungs. There should be pain, overwhelming, all consuming pain. But there’s just an icy, terrible numbness.

(but you were running, lungs burning and legs shaking so hard you fell over and over –)

He doesn’t want to die. Gods, he can’t die out here. He _can’t, can’t can’t_. Someone has to save him; this can’t happen. He is everything to this cause, he _is_ this cause, they _owe it to him._

(no; you were never the cause. you were never anything other than yourself –)

Far away, the Shiroyasha is herding men off the field. He has one thrown across his shoulders, is hauling another by his collar. Even as the bright beams of light slice between them, cutting down men like wheat, he keeps order.

The Shiroyasha can save him. He keeps men from death, he has saved hundreds of them. But the Shiroyasha could not have done it without him, his funds, his resources, his weapons. _The_ Shiroyasha _will save him._

(you tried. you tried. you tried.)

“Shiroyasha!” his voice is too thin, raw and torn as a wound. “Shiroyasha!” It sounds no different from the birds screaming overhead.

The Shiroyasha doesn’t come. Across the battlefield, he glances over his shoulder once and then turns his back.

(no; you never did. you never turned your back. it’s why you’re here today. and why you spent a year living in the gutter trying to get here.)

“You bastard,” growls Gintoki, reaching out to catch himself on the wall that fades in, half-solid, on his right. “I told you. Give up now, before I kick your ass.”

Across the room, he can see something moving in the half-light. But it’s already getting dark again. Gintoki grits his teeth, but he can’t stop it flooding in.

“ _Then let’s see you try._ ”  


  
***  


“ _Please,_ ” begs the ghost as Kagura picks him up by the front of his gi, his glasses askew and face swollen. “ _I can’t do it. Stop already!_ ”

“Sorry,” she says brightly, bringing back her fist again. “I can’t hear you.”

He flails frantically, like a man running through a bee swarm. “ _It’s for your own good! He won’t let you go otherwise!_ ”

Kagura pauses, and the ghost hurries to wedge words into the temporary peace.

“ _I can’t stop my stupid son. But I can keep him from doing more harm. Please. Let me! Let me stop him from destroying himself!_ ”

Kagura opens her fist abruptly; he drops to the ground and lands hard. “You know, old man,” she says, turning her back on him and walking away. “I really hate it when people try to stop me from doing something my own good.”

Kagura stops in front of the door. Look back over her shoulder, and smiles. “It just means I feel bad when I do it anyway.”

Kagura turns back to the door, braces herself, and throws herself straight into it.  


  
***  


It’s a dark day. The wind is high, blowing cold mist over the battlefield from the ocean like a grey silk scarf. Cloud cover takes away the risk of being blinded, but the mist is sliding under their clothes and freezing them to the bone.

They don’t fight in regiments any more. Too many commanders, too many men lost for that. They have no more ammunition for the flintlocks, no more arrows for the bows. They fight only with swords and spears now, a massive wave of men resisting the Amanto in any way they can.

He fights with one sword now, striking down the enemies who bleed blue and purple blood into the hard Hokkaido soil. He takes a step to steady himself and nearly slips on suddenly-smooth ground. A frog-creature leaps at him and he cuts it down, sleeve brushing something vertical and pale that he can’t quite see.

(the wall, it’s the wall, this isn’t real –)

He whirls to strike at a Yamato that has crept up behind him on quiet paws. It’s unarmed, and dodges back from the attack. He runs after it; the ground feels wrong under his feet, too solid.

(wake up, this isn’t real, it’s that bastard –)

The world flickers, just slightly. Grey sky replaced by dark beams, black dirt by smooth wood. There’s a smaller figure in front of him, dodging away.

“ _Gintoki!_ ”

There’s a voice, so faint it’s just a whisper, like the wind in the trees. He blinks, and it’s gone. The Yamato surges forward and he rolls. There’s another sword lying on the ground; he picks it up as he tumbles by. This is better, this is right. He drives the Yamato into a dodge with one blade, and then follows through with the other.

(no. no. no. snap out of it, dammit)

The fucking thing dodges again, moving awkwardly but still too fast to hit. He strikes again with one blade and it catches it on its forearm – how can it, there’s no guard – and twists it to block the second blade. He kicks out, hooking a paw and tripping the Amanto. It falls and moves as if on smooth ground rather than these uneven hillocks.

But the ground is smooth, is a regular wooden floor. The figure in front of him doesn’t have a Yamato’s size or shape, and is pulling itself up on a grey fusuma.

(yes, that’s right, that’s real, hold onto it, hold onto it –)

“ _Gintoki, dammit, snap out of it._ ”

It’s louder now, like the ocean washing over stones. He shakes his head and wheels forward to drive the alien to its feet as the world solidifies again,. It catches his blade, this time between its paws, and gives a hard wrench. The blade goes flying, clatters behind him with an odd wooden sound. He strikes with his second sword, only barely misses.

( _no. no. no. wake up wake up wake up_ )

The Yamato is moving slower now, tired. It feints right and then breaks into a short sprint – it is heading for his dropped sword. He throws himself forward into a tackle and drives it off-balance. They go flying forward together, and slam into something.

The fusuma, they’ve slammed into a set of fusuma. He steps back, boot slipping on the smooth wood, and brings up the sword.

“ _Gintoki, where the hell are you?_ ”

The voice sounds familiar, like something he should know, something he should recognize. But he doesn’t have time for that. The Yamato is trying to break away. He narrows his eyes and raises his sword to chest height, blade flatly horizontal and dull in the fog, and drives it forwards.

( _NO!_ )

The Yamato moves awkwardly to catch the sword – it has no chance with the blade on its side.

“ _GINTOKI!_ ”

The sword stabs straight into its chest. It stares at him in shock. Around it, the world sways and then refocuses.

And now it’s Zura staring at him with wide eyes.

No.

Zura, with his hands pressed tight in against his chest.

 _No._

Zura, beneath whose ribs the sword is neatly slipped.

 _NO._

“ _ZURAAA!_ ”


	5. The Heart is for Bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic war scenes

“ _We aren’t finished_ ,” whispers a voice from over his shoulder. Gintoki doesn’t look. “ _This isn’t the end. Not yet._ ”

“Yes,” he says, flatly, bracing his shoulders and seeing Zura’s miniscule nod, “It is.” Gintoki withdraws the sword with one arm in a smooth motion, and catches Zura with the other as his knees give out under him. Zura’s expression is one of extreme focus, hands both pressed hard against his side.

“ _You will follow him, Shiroyasha._ ”

Gintoki unfolds his obi with a sharp gesture and uses the katana to slice a clean tear in the thin end. He rips the silk into long strips, yukata falling looser around him with only the belt to hold it closed. He kneels in front of Zura and pulls all three layers of the rebel’s clothes over his shoulders and down, bearing his chest. The bleeding is apparent here, the inside of the white under-kimono stained crimson. Gintoki wraps the wound with white hands while Zura holds the bandages tight over it, the two of them working in terse silence to the sound of Zura’s laboured breathing.

Zura’s no idiot. With no way to catch the sword aimed for the centre of his sternum, he redirected it to the least dangerous target possible. The blade has missed his lungs: if not, he would be dying already. If he’s lucky, it’s missed his liver as well: if not, he’ll be dying in an hour.

When he finishes wrapping the wound Gintoki pulls Zura’s heavy layers back up over his shoulders to fight off the shock, then turns around. There’s nothing standing between him and the doors leading out into the garden. But the room is still unnaturally cold, the damp settled heavy and uncomfortable in his clothes.

“ _Too late for that now._ ”

Gintoki stiffens and turns again. Zura is looking up at him, face impassive but eyes tight at the corners. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says very quietly, staring at Gintoki hard as if expecting him to burst out in a sudden show of insanity.

Gintoki drops to one knee beside him instead, resting one arm on the wall and, slipping the other behind Zura’s neck to cradle the back of his skull, kisses him. _This will be okay. I will make it okay._

All he can feel is relief that there is no taste of blood.

“Sometimes I wonder if you listen to anything I say,” says Zura, heavily.

Gintoki stands and turns, expression hardening despite his light-hearted tone. “How can you ask, Zura? You know I don’t.”

Zura snorts softly. “It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.”

“You’d better be here when I get back, you gloomy bastard. Don’t make me spend all this effort for nothing.”

“Then don’t make me wait all day.” Zura shifts and hisses through his teeth. “I’m not like you; I’ve got things to do.”

“Not for much longer.”

The world starts to shift, the room fading out to a wider landscape. Gintoki braces his shoulders, looks around at the forming world, and _focuses._

“I’ve had enough of this crap. Let’s go, Murata: I’ll show you what you never saw.”  


  
***

Mostly the other boys make fun of him. For his pale hair, his strange eyes, his dull expression, his sword, and his unrivalled possession of Sensei’s attention. It doesn’t bother Gintoki; nothing in this sleepy little village with its prosperous houses and well-fed children could ever bother him. The people here don’t even carry weapons. But Sensei wants him to make friends, and since Sensei is the one feeding him he has to make at least some effort.

Katsura Kotarou is the only boy in the class who doesn’t make fun of him. As far as Gintoki can tell, he’s somewhere on a scale between moron and teacher’s pet, but there are worse things.

“Oi,” he says afterschool, as Katsura is gathering his books. The rest of the boys have already hurried out to play in the afternoon sun. Katsura looks over with his usual attentive expression.

“Yes?”

“Don’t you think I’m strange?”

Katsura considers for a moment. And then: “Yes.” He nods.

Gintoki stares back. “Oi. Who says that to someone’s face?”

“You should always answer questions truthfully.” He bends to pick up his books. “But insulting people is discourteous, and doing it behind their backs is shameful. Besides, being strange isn’t bad. Sensei is strange, and he is the best person I know.”

Gintoki blinks at the other boy’s sheer simplicity. Most people either lie outright, or complicate the truth so much it’s incomprehensible. Katsura ignores his silence, swinging his belongings onto his back and heading towards the door. “I’m going home now. Are you?”

Gintoki may be a child, but he can recognize an olive branch when it’s offered, even if it’s a measly one.

“Aa, I guess.” He stands and shoulders the katana. And then, as Katsura stares hard at him, sighs and picks up his study book as well.  


  
***

“Your aim is terrible,” he tells Katsura, dodging a shinai blow almost lazily. Outside the school’s dojo, hens cluck in the dusty street and the younger children laugh and scream as they chase each other. “Is it that stupid hair of yours? You should cut it off. What do you need that ridiculous wig for, anyway? Huh, Zura?” Panting, he shortens the name unintentionally.

“My aim may be terrible, but your footwork is appalling,” retorts Katsura – no, Zura – through clenched teeth as he charges in under Gintoki’s block, “And my name is _Katsura._ ”

“C’mon, Zura, it suits you!” He tries a complicated back step and, as Zura said, gets his ankles caught on each other. Zura presses in too fast, and even as Gintoki falls backwards he twists his sword up under Zura’s and wrenches it out of his grip.

Gintoki lands hard on his ass, scowling. Zura stands above him, rubbing his wrist.

“It does not,” says Zura.  


  
***

  
In the warm summers, they steal peaches and plums from walled gardens and sprint to safety to enjoy their bounty. Zura always needs about two days of taunting to work up to thievery, and inevitably spends the whole approach hissing at the other boys in low tones. But he never once deserts, and as they run across the uneven ground with the juicy fruit held safely in the folds of their loose yukata, he smiles wider than Gintoki has ever seen.  


  
***

When Sensei doesn’t come back from his trip to Edo, they go after him.

It’s Gintoki’s idea, but he knows Takasugi will come without complaint. He’s expecting Zura to take more convincing, and is shocked when the boy agrees immediately.

“Edo is dangerous,” says Zura simply. “The Amanto are everywhere; the _Jyouishishi_ are fighting in the streets.”

Gintoki wants to say that the _Jyouishishi_ are _losing_ in the streets, but he doesn’t. Partially because he knows Zura, the naïve idiot, looks up to them. But more because at this moment Zura lifts a bokutou down from the dojo wall and slips it through the sash of his hakama. That he takes it and not a shinai startles Gintoki even more than his decision to come. Teacher’s pet that he is, Zura has until now followed Sensei’s request for the school children to avoid drawing unnecessary attention by wearing bokutou or swords.

Edo is more than two days’ walk away, but none of them wants to wait any longer than they already have. They catch a ride on the back of a trundling cart carrying barrels of pickled vegetables, three pairs of legs swinging over the dusty road, and let it take them all the way into the teeming city.

There are fewer signs of war in the streets of Edo than they expected; businesses continue to prosper, with busy merchants outside shouting to customers and the roads packed with hurrying people. Here and there, there is fire damage, but there is no widespread destruction. This, they learn as they wander through the winding roads, is because the _Jyouishishi_ pulled out two days ago after a long retreat. Katsura sticks his chin up like he’s trying to balance something on it and stares off into the distance; Takasugi just scowls. Gintoki wonders how long it will be before he’ll be able to raise the idea of dinner.

They know Sensei was called to speak to the Shogunate, but don’t know where or which with official. They gravitate naturally towards the centre of Japan, Nihonbashi.

“I knew we should have looked for a goddamn address before coming,” says Takasugi, glowering at the store fronts they past.

“Read Sensei’s mail?” asks Zura, scandalised. Both Takasugi and Gintoki roll their eyes.

Up ahead, the bridge is teeming as usual. The fish market is nearby; maybe they could get sashimi for dinner, or –

Feeling like he’s in a dream, Gintoki reaches out and wraps his arms tightly around Zura, before the idiot can do something stupid like jump over the side of the embankment. He doesn’t know why it’s his first – his only – reaction. It’s certainly the right one; Zura gives a whining cry and immediately lashes out, trying to get to the side of the river. Beside them, Takasugi makes a choking noise.

Down on the rocky shore beside the riverbed, a row of stakes support severed heads beside a neatly written placard explaining the criminals’ offences. At the end of the row, Shouyou-sensei’s dead eyes stare up at them.

Takasugi is retching now, crouching low on the ground like a dog and cursing between heaves. In his arms, Zura goes still. For some reason, Gintoki can’t seem to let him go.

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters, mouth against Zura’s ear, with some vague idea of Bakufu spies. “Don’t say anything at all.”

“I’ll kill them,” says Zura in a low whisper, ignoring him completely and still staring down into the riverbed. He repeats the words like a mantra. “I’ll kill them. I will kill them all.”

On the ground, Takasugi spits and then gets up shakily.

They all three stand there, frozen, while the life of Edo goes on behind them. Finally, Takasugi turns away. “Come on,” he says, and starts walking back the way they came. Back to the village.

When they get home, Zura replaces the bokutou with a katana. He never puts it down again.  


  
***

They all sit together in the dojo, the fifteen local boys old enough to wield a blade and three who aren’t. Gintoki isn’t worried about them; he’ll beat the crap out of them before they go if he has to, or more simply report them to their mothers.

Katsura and Takasugi stand at the front of the group; Gintoki sits off to the side with his katana resting on his shoulder.

“The _Jyouishishi_ are fighting near Mito,” says Zura, eyes sweeping over the other boys. “They are fighting to protect the people of this country from the invaders the Shogunate has welcomed with open arms. The invaders who named Shouyou-sensei as a rebel leader. The invaders who want to take this land from us. We are going to Mito to join the _Jyouishishi_ and to fight this invasion in any way we can.” Zura is surprisingly eloquent; Gintoki supposes it was all that actual effort he put into school.

“We’ll kick the shit out of those goddamn monsters,” crows Hiratani in the front row, face red with excitement. Hiratani, who regularly loses his grip on his sword when practicing against dummies. Several others murmur excitedly, nodding and grinning. Gintoki looks up, expression flat.

“You don’t know anything about war,” he says, cutting through the chatter.

“And you do?” asks Taniguchi, a boy a few years younger than them. Several of the older boys frown nervously.

“Shut up,” says Zura, blandly, as if dismissing a stupid question.

“Neither do you,” points out Gintoki, looking at him.

“Shut up,” says Zura again, in the same tone.

Gintoki shrugs, and turns to the group of excited boys. “It’s up to you. You’re willing to die for your country. Do you _want_ to? Because if you go to Mito, you will. You think three years of kendo is enough to fight trained soldiers? You think a sword can fight a rifle? You think a boy can fight a grown man? Once or twice, maybe. Through a war with no sign of ending? Never. If you join the _Jyouishishi_ , you’re going to die. That’s a fact.” He stands and walks out into the warm May air.

Several minutes later, the boys come streaming out. Several slink off looking scared, but many more walk away with straight backs and hard faces. Takasugi leaves smiling. Zura comes out last, dousing the lights and closing the doors behind him.

In the moonlight, Zura’s hair gleams raven-blue. Gintoki knows there is no point in hiding; his own practically glows. He leans against a wall and waits instead.

“Oh, there you are,” says Zura as he turns, as if he had been looking. Gintoki pushes away from the wall. “We’re leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“This is suicidal, Zura. You know that.”

“My name is Katsura. And this is the only option honour allows. As samurai, it is our duty to protect this nation.”

“No one’s called you. You have no obligation. You’re a fucking kid.”

“I have the strength and skill; my path is clear. The Shogunate abandoning its country is no excuse for my doing so.”

Gintoki steps abruptly in front of him, and grabs his shoulders. Zura stops and stares him straight in the eye.

“You’re going to die, Zura. You all are. For Japan? What the hell is that? This village? No one wants it. The land? They don’t want that either.”

Zura’s eyes flash. In the moonlight, he leans forward and pushes Gintoki’s hand off his shoulders. Grabs Gintoki’s shoulder instead, and nearly shouts in his face, “Sensei is dead, Gintoki. They stripped him of his property, of his earnings, of his _reputation_. They murdered him, and then they dragged everything he stood for through the mud! Don’t you _care_? He was your master, your teacher, your guardian –”

Gintoki strikes out, and punches Zura straight on the jaw. Zura spins and trips to fall heavily on his ass.

“I care,” he says, staring down coldly at Zura. “If I could, I’d kill every last one of the assholes. But I can’t. And neither can you. Sensei wouldn’t want us to throw our lives away for him.”

“Sensei wouldn’t want Japan to fall while we could do something to stop it.” Zura reaches up to rub gingerly at his jaw. “I will not let that happen.”

Zura’s an amazing swordsman for his age. In a more peaceful era, he could be winning tournaments if he wanted to, or starting his own school. But it takes more than skill with a sword to survive on a battlefield. Alone, Zura won’t last a week. And Gintoki can’t face the thought of that.

Sighing, Gintoki rubs at his eyes. After a minute, he reaches down and extends his hand. “Zura, sometimes you’re a real stubborn bastard, you know that?”

Zura takes it, and he pulls him up. “It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.”  


  
***

In some ways, the nights are worse than the days. There is no fighting to distract the mind from how very close it is to death, no adrenaline to wash away the pain, no clashing of swords and booming guns to hide the screams.

Hiratani dies just after midnight on the day after they join up, holding Zura’s hand and begging for his mother. By morning two more boys from their village have deserted.

Gintoki sits beside Zura through those early nights, before the other boy grows used to the horror. Zura’s expression is always sharp and attentive, and if anyone speaks to him he answers calmly. It earns him respect right from the start, despite his stupid hair and girly face.

Only Gintoki, sitting pressed up against him, can tell that he’s trembling.  


  
***

They are all injured nearly every day, but skill and luck combine to keep them from major injuries. Gintoki breaks his ribs at the end of the Mito Rebellion, and the formal surrender of the main body of troops probably saves his life. Takasugi breaks his leg in Kyoto, and is forced to stay behind while the rest of them march slowly southward to Shimonoseki.

It’s not until the shelling of Shimonoseki that Zura is seriously injured, and the Shiroyasha becomes a legend.

The Amanto, realising the Japanese superiority on land, load small ships with shells and cannons and attack from the sea and sky. The harbour of Shimonoseki is burning by the third day, the rebels’ clothes painted ash black and their snot equally dark when they rub their noses. Some of the Amanto begin to get overconfident, and bring the ships in close enough that they can fire the shells deep into the dockyard.

Gintoki and Zura are hidden behind a wall of sandbags with a number of other men, awaiting the inevitable land charge, when a shell falls right outside their hole. It explodes before any of them have time to throw themselves to the ground, blowing sand and wood high into the sky with a roar that sets Gintoki’s ears ringing.

When the smoke clears, half the men are lying in a bloody mess on the ground.

Zura’s one of them.

For a brief minute, all Gintoki can seem to see is red. Everything but the blood fades out into the background, so that it seems to float on invisible planes and ridges, sharply defined against the still-settling dust. And then colour filters through properly again, and he can see that Zura’s not moving, that he’s half-buried in the pile of other men, that his face and neck and gi are all crimson, that he’s not moving not moving not moving –

For some reason, all he can think of is Shouyou-sensei, staring up at him from on top of that goddamn pike. Staring up at him in accusation: _How could you let this happen, Gintoki?_

Rage and adrenaline are much more potent than alcohol. The next little while is very blurred, but when Gintoki comes back to himself he’s standing on an Amanto boat bobbing beside the docks. The Amanto are mostly lying on the deck or floating in the sea; none of them are moving. The blood on the deck is ankle-deep.

The men stare at him as he jumps shakily down and walks back towards the city; he leaves red footprints on the dock behind him.

When Gintoki returns to the makeshift foxhole, he finds three bodies on the ground. None of them is Zura. Something seems to be very wrong with his brain, and he can’t seem to piece the puzzle together. Zura was here. Zura should be here. He was here a minute ago. That he isn’t seems impossible, incomprehensible. Gintoki stares blankly at the empty space where he was, while behind them ships continue to fire over the harbour.

“Sakata-kun!” Someone runs over and halts suddenly, staring at his clothes. Gintoki looks up slowly, and the man’s expression shifts into one he can’t read. “Sakata-kun, Katsura-kun has been taken to the infirmary. He’s asking about you.”

“Zura?” asks Gintoki, looking back at the spot where he’s supposed to be. Whoever-it-is grabs him by the arm and leads him; he follows on stumbling feet.

The infirmary is just a sturdy building with men lying in it. There are no beds, or doctors, or supplies. Just the wounded, and a few others who are trying to stop them bleeding to death in the next few minutes.

Gintoki is led to a corner, where Zura is sitting up with a bandage roughly the size and shape of a seagull adhered to the side of his head.

Like smoked glass shattering to let in light, sense floods back into Gintoki’s world. He blinks, and drops his sword. “Zura!”

Zura looks up at him in concerned surprise. “What happened to you – they said you were fine – your clothes –” he doesn’t manage to finish his sentence, because Gintoki drops to his knees next to him and for a reason he can’t fathom, pulls him into a kiss.

Zura makes a surprised noise, and then shuts up abruptly when Gintoki ends the kiss just as suddenly as he started it and leans forward to pull Zura forward into a tight hug.

“Don’t say anything, moron,” he whispers. “It’s hormones. Just hormones.”

Even with the relief pounding through him making him light-headed, Gintoki knows it’s not true.  


  
***

At Fushimi they lie twined together, Zura’s heartbeat so close to his own he can hardly tell which is which.

“Is this still just hormones?” asks Zura, trying to comb order into Gintoki’s hair and failing miserably.

“Of course. What else could it be, with you?”

“Well if that’s the case, I have mending to do.” Zura makes to get up; Gintoki catches his wrist and pulls him back down.

“Stay,” he says, gruffly.

Zura turns to look down at him, his long hair falling over his shoulder to brush against Gintoki’s collarbone. He’s stupidly good looking and that doesn’t help, his skin milky and face delicate. Gintoki reaches up to run rough fingers along Zura’s cheekbone; Zura’s eyes darken a shade.

“Stay,” he says again, softer this time.

Zura sighs, and lies back down. “Who’s the stubborn bastard now?”  


  
***

The fighting gets worse the farther north they move. The Amanto bring in handguns, then machine guns, then lasers. Battles cease to be fights for victory and become fights for survival. Old comrades mostly gone, they make new ones only to lose them too. And then there are no more new men, no more recruits. Gintoki knows it’s only a matter of time now.

Like most of the remaining men, Zura will never give up. Only death will stop him, and as they march north that becomes more and more likely. Each battle they come a little closer to utter exhaustion, a little closer to fatal carelessness. Each battle, the Shiroyasha is quicker to arrive and slower to leave. Gintoki has nothing of himself left but the others now, and he isn’t strong enough to protect them.

“End it now, Zura,” he says, in Aomori. “We can’t win, and the only way we’ll lose is by losing everything. Go out there and tell them to stop. They’ll listen; you know it.”

Zura, sitting across from him in the moonlight, doesn’t look up. “Not Zura; Katsura. You tell them. They’ll listen to you.”

“But you won’t,” says Gintoki, because that is the crux of everything.

“Does that matter?”

There’s a long silence. And then, quietly, “I should have punched you harder that day,” says Gintoki. “I should have knocked you out. I should never have let you do this fucking crazy-ass thing.”

“If my life is the only burden you carry, then –”

“Don’t you fucking dare say it’s lighter than yours, Zura,” interrupts Gintoki, low and furious.

“I was going to say, you should have chosen better,” says Zura, after nearly a minute, but his tone betrays him.

They don’t say anything more about it.  


  
***

All across the fields, stricken men are screaming for help. Up ahead, Sakamoto is helping Takasugi limp off the battlefield, away from the whining of the beam cannons. Partially deaf from the surfeit of sound and numb from the suffocating atmosphere of death all around, Gintoki tries his best to keep his senses and direct the remaining samurai away from danger.

Ahead, Zura is reeling like a drunk, stumbling over the uneven ground with his sword drawn. He stumbles once and very nearly disembowels himself. Heart in his throat, Gintoki runs over and makes him sheath it. Zura turns to stare at him, and he suddenly knows how that man felt on the docks of Shimonoseki. Zura is staring right through him, eyes unfocused. He’s covered in blood but not pale enough to have lost much of his own, and he’s moving fluidly enough to reassure Gintoki that he’s not injured. Just very nearly out of his mind.

“We’re going, Zura,” he says, and wraps his arm around Zura.

“Can’t retreat: no back lines. It’s all over if we retreat.”

“It _is_ all over. We’ve lost. Come on.”

Zura turns to look at him like he’s crazy. “The hell’re you talking about, Gintoki? We can’t –”

Gintoki punches him in the gut, hard. Hard as he should have all that long time ago in their tiny village. Zura makes a choking noise, reaches for Gintoki, and then starts to fall. Gintoki gets a shoulder under him as he goes down, and swings him up onto his back.

Gintoki walks off the battlefield, and although despite the odds he has somehow dragged Zura out alive, he feels only a cold gaping emptiness inside.  


  
***

Kagura picks herself up again to leap at the shoji feet-first, like an arrow from a bow. A few minutes ago, she heard Gin-chan’s cry echoing through the empty house, anguish knife-sharp. She hasn’t stopped since then. Beside her, Elizabeth swings her sign at the door, egg-like eyes narrowed.

Kagura’s in the air when she hears a tiny gasp. It’s too late to turn, and she hits the doors with the full force of her running leap’s momentum. Slams right into the shoji and bursts through it in an explosion of wood and paper. Hitting the ground hard enough to make the walls shake, she comes up running. Elizabeth pads along after her, webbed feet making a noise like butter being patted. Neither is interested in an explanation.

Kagura has no idea where she’s going, but she knows the general direction of the scream. She pounds down the dusty wood floors and hits the entranceway. From there, all she has to do is follow the open doors.

They run through three gloomy rooms filled with stale air before coming up on a pair of broken fusuma, and the heavily damaged room beyond.

Kagura skids to a stop, eyes wide.

Sitting against one wall with his arm wrapped tight around his chest and his skin an ugly grey colour is Zura, shoulders rising and falling visibly with his panting breaths. His hand can’t disguise the blood soaking through the scraps of dark silk tied around his chest. By his side lies a bloody katana, Gin-chan’s bokutou is a few feet further away. Kagura’s eyes track slowly from the rebel to Gin-chan.

He is kneeling in the centre of the room, his back rounded like a cat’s, with one hand pressed flat against the floor for support. His face is in shadows. Kagura takes an uncertain step forwards. “Gin-chan?”

“Don’t,” barks Zura, face strained.

KATSURA-SAN! ARE YOU ALRIGHT? Elizabeth hurries over to him.

“Stay away from Gintoki,” says Zura, giving a marginal nod to Elizabeth.

Gin-chan shudders and makes an odd choking noise in his throat, almost like a rattle-snake.

“Gin-chan?”

Slow as Shinpachi opening their utilities bill, Gin-chan raises his head. He’s sweating hard enough that drips are gathering at his chin to drop onto the floor – it’s probably the only cleaning it’s seen in years. “Welllll, you bassstarrrd?” he growls, voice so harsh and drawn Kagura can only barely make out the words. There is no answer; Kagura can only guess at who he’s talking to.

Like the tide turning, Gin-chan pulls himself around to face Zura. He’s breathing so hard he could be a carnival ride, back rising and falling several inches with each breath. Neither of them says anything, but they don’t look confused either, like a pair of robots communicating by internal radio. Although Zura’s the one with blood all over him, Gin-chan looks in nearly as much pain.

“You understand now, Murata?” hisses Gin-chan. “It wasn’t about you. Wasn’t about Japan. Wasn’t about Sensei.”

Zura closes his eyes, jaw tight and face lined.

“It was never about what we lost. It was about protecting what we had. Except by the time we realised it, that was gone too.”

Gin-chan sits up slowly, and then pushes himself awkwardly to his feet. He walks like a little child, in uncertain, staggering steps, and sits down heavily in front of Zura. “You want to know what that feels like?” He reaches out to ghost his fingers over the wet blood soaking through the bandage around Zura’s torso. Facing away from her as he is, Kagura can’t see Gin-chan’s face. But she still nearly flinches at his raw tone. “It feels a hell of a lot like this.”

Kagura feels frozen, like her clothes are soaked in cement, like someone’s pumped liquid toffee into her blood and it’s hardened into a tooth-shattering state. Behind her someone pads quietly into the room, and slips past her.

Shinpachi. Or rather, the ghost that’s wearing him.

He walks across the room with an old man’s crooked back, and stops behind Gin-chan. Lays a hand on his shoulder, and says quietly, “ _Enough, Kenji. It’s time to go._ ”

Shinpachi’s voice is so rarely quiet that Kagura’s almost forgotten how calming it can be. How reassuring. Gin-chan swivels to stare up at Shinpachi with wide eyes.

“ _Father? No – this is – he’s –_ ”

For an instant, Gin-chan’s face starts to contract, eyes narrowing into a sharper, crueller expression. And Shinpachi strikes him straight across the cheek. “ _It’s time you learned what you never did from me. Position is not the only thing that matters in that world. In this one, it means nothing at all._ ” Shinpachi sighs, and moves his reddening hand to rest on top of Gin-chan’s head, as if he were just a little boy. “ _Your life was far too short, Kenji, and you missed many things. But in some ways, perhaps you are lucky. You never had to suffer through losing them._ ”

“ _Father –_ ”

The soft hand turns to a set of knuckles to the skull. “ _Now come on. We can’t stay here forever, you know. I’m getting tired of waiting for you in this mouldy old house – cute girls almost never come here!_ ” Shinpachi turns to Kagura. “ _I wish I could see you when you grow up. You’ll be a knock-out for sure!_ ”

“Shut up, you pervert,” says Kagura, more out of force of habit than anything. The old ghost smiles, and bows. Kagura opens her mouth to say something, but he’s already turning away.

“ _Come on, Kenji. You know what you have to do, don’t you?_ ” He steps back, releasing Gin-chan, who blinks uncertainly. He looks somehow much younger – half-nervous and half-defiant. But then he catches sight of Zura, breathing with the slow deliberateness of a bellows, and blanches.

“ _I –_ ”

Zura opens his eyes, and Gin-chan flinches. “Murata,” he says calmly, between breaths, “We didn’t forget you. You may rest assured. We never will.”

Gin-chan stiffens, and then bows rigidly. “ _Katsura-san, I ask for your forgiveness._ ”

Zura’s expression doesn’t change. “It isn’t mine you need.”

There is a beat of silence. And then, reluctant as Gin-chan giving up pocket money,

“ _Shiroyasha. I ask your forgiveness._ ”

There is no answer.

“You know better. Ask him properly,” says Zura.

“ _S- Sakata Gintoki. I ask – I beg for your forgiveness._ ”

Another beat of silence. Zura shifts, and winces. “Don’t be a stubborn bastard, Gintoki,” he says thickly.

The ghost lets out a kind of gulping cry, like someone just jammed a heel into his instep.

“Grrranted,” growls Gin-chan’s proper voice. “Now get the fffuck out.”

The sound starts very low, like someone humming under their breath. It grows louder and louder, past the rumble of a car and the roar of a motorcycle, to the shrill screaming whistle of a train. The walls and floor rattle with it, dust pouring down on them like dirty snow. Then there is a bang like cannon fire. And simultaneously, Gin-chan and Shinpachi drop to the ground and lie there, unmoving. Even from several feet away, Kagura can see that they’re both breathing properly now.

There is a long, long silence. Eventually Elizabeth, the only other truly conscious person in the room, turns to Kagura.

ARE WE GOING TO HAVE TO CLEAN THIS UP?


	6. Epilogue: You May Go Blind Staring at the Past, But There Are Always Glasses

Gintoki’s reading JUMP – or at least staring at it – when the doorbell rings. Shinpachi hurries over to answer it on the astronomical chance that it might be a paying client. Gintoki isn’t actively listening, but he can’t turn his ears off, either.

“Katsura-san! Should you be up? I thought the doctor said at least two weeks of bed rest.”

Gintoki stiffens, and then relaxes again and pulls JUMP up to cover his face.

“Doctors,” says Katsura, in a dismissive tone. “Several have told me to consult a psychiatrist. A psychiatrist! I was not wounded in the head!”

Shinpachi laughs awkwardly.

“Is Leader here?” There’s the sound of Katsura taking his shoes off in the entrance way, as if someone had invited him in.

“No, she’s out with Aneue.”

“Ah, then perhaps you could do me a favour, Shinpachi-kun. I had intended to bring her some sukonbu for her trouble at the mansion, but I was forced to take a different route on account of a group of squad cars checking papers on the main street. Perhaps you could go out and purchase some?” There’s the sound of money being exchanged. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Shinpachi puts his shoes on and steps out, shutting the door behind him.

Zura walks quietly as always, but Gintoki can still sense him approaching. He says nothing. Zura sits down on the end of the couch, cushions sagging under Gintoki’s feet.

Gintoki hasn’t seen Zura for nearly a week, since leaving him at the hospital. He carried Zura there while Zura’s warm blood soaked through the back of his shirt to warm his skin, only half-sure what time he was in and even less sure what the hell he was supposed to feel about the man on his back. The doctor determined, after an operation so long Gintoki nearly went in to do it himself, that no major organs had been significantly damaged and a full recovery was very likely. At which point Gintoki left, before his nerves could strangle him.

He’s not sure that they won’t yet.

“Kagura sent me some nice flowers,” Zura says conversationally. “At least, I believe they were flowers; they had a sign on them saying so. They looked more like some root vegetables run over by a heavy truck, but I have not been to a florist recently. Perhaps there have been significant advances in floral arrangements.”

Gintoki doesn’t say anything.

“Elizabeth has already been caught bringing liquor into the hospital against regulations three times. I thought I should leave before she could risk arrest. She is incapable of understanding incremental warning systems.”

Gintoki says nothing.

“I have heard that the Shinsengumi are imposing new requirements for identification papers. Of course as I have none it is not a problem. But really, I think that it is utterly ridiculous, the number of things that can happen while I am gone for a week.”

Gintoki still says nothing. Katsura reaches over, letting out a quiet breath, and picks the issue of JUMP off his face. “How long are you going to sulk for?”

“I’m not sulking. I’m resting. Put that back. Gin-san needs his sleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a grown man. You sleep too much as it is. Your brain will melt away into mush if you spend any less time using it.”

“You’re the one that needs to worry about that, Zura.”

“It’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.” Zura tosses JUMP onto the coffee table with a complete disregard for the belongings of others. Gintoki sighs, and sits up. The two of them sit beside each other in silence for several seconds, until eventually Gintoki speaks.

“I always thought I would never forget. And I always thought I hadn’t forgotten. And now…”

“Now you know how wrong that was,” says Zura, in the same tone.

“It feels like Hakodate was last week. It nearly killed me the first time.” He looks up at the ceiling, and tries not to hear the screams. “I don’t want to do it again, Zura.”

“You were alone then. Now you have Shinpachi and Kagura, and the rest of the strange zoo you’ve surrounded yourself with. I guess you’ve established a natural habitat.”

“I should be saying that.” Gintoki raises his head and turns to look at Zura, who is staring with fixed concentration at the dark TV on the other side of the room. “Is that all I have?”

Zura looks over, surprised. “Well, you’re an incorrigible lazy slacker, so you’ll never have any money, or a car, or a real job, or an apartment without about 6 rent instalments owing.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course not. You’ll never have a big screen TV, or expensive dental care, or one of those machines that can make toast and coffee at the same time, or –”

“What about a stupid gloomy terrorist who can’t see what’s right in front of his face?”

“I have excellent eyesight, thank you very –” Zura stops abruptly as Gintoki puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him close, until Gintoki can feel his heartbeat. It feels like it did all those years ago, strong and steady, and he closes his eyes to feel it all the better. Here he isn’t in Edo, or Aomori, or a tiny forgotten village.

Here he is simply with Zura, still beside him despite everything.

“Maybe we didn’t lose everything after all,” says Gintoki.

END


End file.
